A Better Son or Daughter
by TheDarkestMinds
Summary: John Egbert's suicide attempt fails and he ends up in a mental hospital. There, he meets some unlikely friends and realizes that life may actually be worth living after all. -This is NOT a story about insane kids. This is a story about real people with real problems struggling to accept themselves.
1. Chapter 1

Before you read, I'd like to warn you that this may contain possible triggers. This isn't a story about crazy kids being dumped into an insane asylum. This is about real problems that real people deal with. I'm going to make the story as accurate as possible; some of this is even based on real experiences. That being said, please leave feedback so I'll know how to improve. I love reading reviews and they make my day even better!

Thank you.

* * *

Chapter 1

Sometimes in the morning I wake up and I can't move. My body is awake, but my eyes are squeezed shut as I dread the oncoming day. I finally end up tossing onto my side, desperate to escape reality for a little while longer, when my bedroom door is thrust open. It's just my dad. He tells me to get dressed so we can leave early for the supermarket. Before I can respond he is already gone. I decide to ignore his urgency and stay curled in my blankets a little while longer. I space out for a while, staring out the window beside my bed into the glaring sunlight. I must have been laying there for a long time, because dad's already back. Frustration makes my throat close up and my chest throbs; can't this guy give me a break? I argue with him until the front door slams shut and he leaves without me. Good riddance is what I say. Tears well into my eyes and I wipe them away, feeling even worse. I drag myself up and sit on the edge of my bed, gazing at nothing while vague thoughts drift through my head. I blink and continue to the bathroom on wobbly feet; I haven't ate anything in a few days. I immediately step onto the scale and scowl at the results.

I hate the number looking back at me. I feel this huge rush of emotions, it's like nothing I have ever experienced before. I curse at myself out loud and rush out of the bathroom. There's this horrible, horrible ringing in my ears. I want to hit something or just start balling my eyes out. Then, I see my flip blade sitting in a decorative coffee mug on my desk. Dad's at work a lot and he can be gone for hours at a time, so it probably seemed reasonable back then to let me have something to protect myself with just in case anything bad happens. I grab it and pull up my sweat pants, revealing my pale thighs. I press the knife to my skin very gently. My heart is pounding and I'm not sure if I can do it. I quickly lose my nerve and sprint back to the bathroom to get a razor instead. Those are much easier to use than knives, I think. I uncap a clean razor and slide it across my thigh, hesitant at first, but much more vigorously as small cuts start to form. I carve up my thigh several times until I am sufficed with what I have done. Tears stream down my face; thoughts of my dad yelling at me if he ever finds out comes to mind.

I feel panicked, especially when the blood won't stop flowing. No matter how much pressure I use there seems to be an endless amount of blood. The wet rag I had been using has turned completely red. I open the medicine cabinet one handed, the other still pressed to my thigh, and pull out a box of band aids. I tear them off their wrappers and place them side by side, cut over cut, until all of them are concealed from view. I roll my pants down and hurry to the kitchen to throw the bloody rag in the trash. It needs to be taken out anyway, so I'll do it. Dad will only see it as a good deed. I gather the trash bag and take it outside to put it by the curb. Once that's all done, I feel a little more relieved. Okay, now back to the bathroom. The razor doesn't even have that much blood on it. I rinse it off in the sink and stow it away in the cabinet with the other unused razors. Then, I replace all my band aids for extra caution (wouldn't want blood to start running down my leg or something). I sweep all the garbage into the toilet and flush it away.

There. All the evidence is gone. It's like it never even happened.

I go about my usual routine: feeding my gecko Casey, skipping breakfast (because since it is dad's off day he'll expect me to eat dinner with him), and I go through my homework again just to make sure it's all finished. Dad arrives home and he calls for me. I come into the kitchen as he is putting away groceries. He says he feels really silly about arguing with me earlier and that he'd like to make it up to me. He pulls out a movie ticket to the latest Nicholas Cage film that was just released yesterday. I take the ticket in silence.

"Thank you." I manage.

Dad grins, but it ebbs a little when he asks if something's wrong. His concern touches me to the deepest recess in my heart. My thigh burns like hell now. Hands shaking, I smile back, feeling like the guiltiest, most worthless person in the entire universe.

"Everything is fine."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The next day, I couldn't look my dad in the eye. We watched our favorite shows together and had grilled chicken and potatoes for dinner. I ate all of my food under his watchful eye, but later that night I felt so nauseous that I vomited it all right back up. After he went to bed at eight, I headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the shower. I favored my left leg as I gazed at my naked body in the mirror. Too fat, I thought. My fingers subconsciously brushed against the scars on my thigh and I hissed at the contact. It hurt so fucking much. But, for some reason, the pain was actually quite welcoming. It felt right; I deserved it for eating, I deserved it for secretly letting my dad down.

Now, on Monday, I once again stare out my bedside window. When the sun slowly begins to rise over the horizon, I turn over and face the clock: 5:03 am. I sigh in frustration; I didn't sleep a wink all night. I save myself the trouble and turn off the alarm before it can ring in a few minutes. I roll off the bed and begin my morning ritual to get ready for school. I frown suddenly when I realize that my cuts no longer hurt anymore. It makes me feel disappointed, but I'm not really sure why.

Unless you want me to bore you to death with the fantastic details of my morning, I'll skip ahead to English, which is my worst class. It's hard to concentrate when there are so many handsome guys in one room. Did I mention that I like guys? It is my worst kept secret, and I feel horrible for it. The day it slipped to the bullies that I was gay was the same day my life descended into chaos. Have you ever heard of the saying "small towns breed small minds"? Well, I'm here to tell you that that is completely, one hundred percent true. The people here are so feeble minded and fake that they'll pick on anyone that dares to step over their line of normalcy. It's ridiculous and stupid, but I don't make the rules.

Next is German, which I still cannot speak a fluent sentence of, then Calculus and, at last, lunch. My school runs on a block schedule: four classes a day at ninety minutes each. Third block (third class) is when all four lunches take turns. Instead of going to the cafeteria for fourth lunch like I'm supposed to, I purposely head towards the boy's bathroom. I step into the empty room and await my punishment. I might as well get it over with now instead of prolonging it. You see, the bullies here do not fuck around. You either show up for your scheduled beatings or get jumped on the sidewalk and pulled into an alley later on. Seems a little excessive, right?

I look at myself in the mirror and scowl in disgust.

I'm suddenly hauled up by my arms and throw onto the floor. One of the kicks that is aimed for my stomach misses and hits a rib instead. Blows come from several sides and gradually bruise sections of my body that can be hidden under clothing. I close my eyes and cover my head with my arms, waiting for it to end. The pain is so intense that I feel like I'm going to pass out, but then it ends as quickly as it had begun. I glance around the bathroom for my attackers, but nobody is there.

Silent and deadly like always.

I manage to pull myself up off the ground. For the millionth time that day I look at my reflection in the mirror and my heart clenches. Tears glide down my cheeks in quiet agony and no matter how much I try to wipe them away they never stop. I run my hands through my tousled hair in a futile attempt to make it look nicer. The bell soon rings for fourth block. I force myself to hold down the building pressure in my chest and leave for Culinary Arts.

0-0-0-0

I know what I'm going to do now; I decided on the bus ride home. It's taken me quite a while to realize what needed to be done, and now I'm going to finally do it.

Once I'm inside the empty confines of my own home, my face feels wet again. I don't even bother taking off my dirty shoes. I head right to the bathroom and lock the door to ensure my privacy. I shrug off my backpack and jacket. In seconds the razor is back in my hand and this time I've dragged it along my wrist. The pain is refreshing and nice, but it is not enough. I cut myself again and again until my entire arm is drenched in red. The sight of it makes me woozy and turns my empty stomach.

Almost… I need more…

I jump up and push open the door, leaning heavily on the walls as I make my way to my room. The switch blade is still in the coffee mug. I grasp its blue handle and sway toward the bathroom. Everything feels sluggish and wrong. My heart is beating too fast and it's getting harder to breath. I somehow close the door and slide down to the floor. I flip open the knife and my chest pounds. This time, I don't hesitate. I slice open my other wrist, the one without all the tiny cuts, and am promptly petrified at the amount of blood running down my arm now.

All at once I feel uncertain and sad, the thought of leaving my dad behind seems horrifying now. However, my other wrist is already being torn apart by the knife, as if my body instinctively did it, and more crimson spills out from the repulsive wound. I feel as if I need to throw up, but I can barely move now. It's like something is sucking out my soul ounce by ounce. I can't even feel the pain anymore. I can't feel anything.

All of a sudden the door bursts open (didn't I lock it..?) and my dad's fuzzy, heartbroken face is inches from mine. He's dialing something on his cell phone and pulling myself into his lap.

After that, everything is one huge blur. I remember being picked up and handled by a lot of strange men, accompanied by the wail of a banshee and flashing red lights. I remember white hallways and people in long coats prodding me with sharp needles. I remember being half awake and my dad's frantic voice asking the doctor if I'll be okay, then… then I woke up.

This time the pain medication doesn't drag me back down either; I'm awake and alive.

I am alive.

My suicide attempt had failed. Oh my God. Dad had found me. My dad… my amazing, perfect dad, who loves me more than life, had found me in a pool of my own blood with a razor blade and a knife. He had held me as I lay dying in his arms.

I want to cry. I want to scream and shout and punch the walls until my knuckles bleed. I feel so frustrated and depressed, yet surprisingly relieved. I am alive. By some miracle, dad had come home early from work just in time to save me. By some grace from whatever divine being may be out there, I had been so out of it that I forgot to lock the bathroom door, which saved dad the time of busting it down.

I struggle to sit up, but before I can make since of anything a voice greets me from the far wall. "Sup'?" A lanky boy around my age is gazing at me curiously from the edge of his cot.

I grab my aching head and notice that my arms feel heavier than usual. "Where am I?" My voice sounds scratchy. How long have I been out of the loop?

"This is a mental hospital. They brought you in last night without a word. I thought for sure you were dead." He pauses. "You're alive, right?" In a flash he strides towards my bed and starts poking me in the shoulder with his finger, as if this is the most important thing in the world to him at the moment.

Everything seems to slow down and I barely manage to catch my breath. "W-What?"

He stops jabbing me with his pointer and sighs. "I get these fucking weird ass hallucinations sometimes and-"

"No, no, not that!" I shout. "This is a mental hospital?"

"Oh shit, they didn't tell you?"

I bury my head in my knees and wrap my arms around my legs. I can't stop the muffled sobs that escape me. Everything seems to be happening so fast. Three months ago me, dad, and mom were all together and happy… but now I've been dumped into a mental hospital. So much shit has happened in between those three months…

The boy plops down beside me on the bed. "Hey, it's okay. At least you're in good company now." His voice is oddly soothing.

I sniff. "I should be dead."

He shuffles across the bed until he's sitting right in front of me. "Hey, don't say that." He grabs my shoulders. "You're here _now_. Shitty _shit_ happens to good people, man. Don't let it get you down. Every patient in this place has a different story, but they're all here to get better."

I lift my head up a little and he smiles. "Plus, the people here aren't so bad. The psychiatrist sort of smells funky, but he's really nice. Oh! And today is taco day. We can't be friends if you're not excited about taco day, dude."

When I finally calm down the boy holds out his hand towards me in greeting. "My name is Dave."

I slowly grasp his hand. "John," I'm grinning back now; it's like his happiness is contagious and the thought makes my heart flutter. "John Egbert."


End file.
